


parallels

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Don't Even Get Me Started On Martin's Mum, M/M, Nightmares, TMAHCweek, bandaging worm injuries, day four prompt? i think?, he was seriously neglected, i really want to kill their parents, i'm behind don't judge, jon is too but like off the record, like the more i think about it the more i realize jon's gran rlly screwed him up, martin is living in the archives, oh and featuring jon and martin's stellar childhoods, oh i forgot- blatant abuse of hyphens, set in season one before jane attacks but like, there are still worms, try me i dare you i will slap an old woman, tw implied abuse and neglect, tw non-graphic description of an injury, tw worms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: Jon and Martin were raised without comfort. Without love. They are slowly learning what both of those look like.TMAHCWeek prompt- childhood/hiding injury (slightly but oh well)/calm
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894012
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	parallels

**Author's Note:**

> i'm way behind on these prompts but i am still going to be posting them. i hope y'all enjoy it! please check out my other works for this week if you have the time  
> any and all feedback is appreciated!  
> xxx

**Bournemouth, 1996**

_Velvet light beckoned beyond yellow streetlamps, pushing the void further and further away. Jon wandered below the canopy of beams, safe in his ability to see all around him, His pockets were weighed down with several stones, a handful of curiously shaped nuts, a knobby twig, and loose sand. All products of the day’s explorations, ready to be analyzed and dissected on his bedroom floor._

_Not yet, though. That could wait. Now the world was quiet, cars passing infrequently, the only sound his feet as he carefully crossed over sidewalk cracks. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back, step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” he recited under his breath. “Step on a crack, break your- mother’s back.” His prayer halted for a moment, voice twisting around the word. Mother._

_“Step on a crack, break your grandmother’s back.”_

_His foot hesitated over the weed-riddled gap, considering for far too long whether he should step, hard, right on top of it._

_No, he shouldn’t think about it. He was very lucky to have someone taking care of him, regardless of whether or not that care involved days spent alone, foraging in the pantry for a handful of rice to boil in a pot, and learning not to depend on others for anything._

_Jon sighed and hopped across the crack, his gran’s voice already echoing in the distance, shrill and upset. That was his fault, he shouldn’t have been out late again._

_Rhyme and superstition forgotten, he hurried home._

~~~

**Devon, 1997**

_The patch of moss beneath his fingers was still blurred, the edges fading into the dark soil, vibrant greens swirling with the rest of the forest’s colors. Martin sniffed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. It came away wet._

_“I know she loves me, I know she does,” he whispered to the small yellow flower sprouting near his crossed legs. “I mean, she has to! I’m her son! That’s how families are supposed to work, right?”_

_It didn’t answer, petals fanning out from a lighter colored center. He didn’t expect it to. Answers were hard enough to come by, even when he wasn’t asking inanimate objects. Still, it didn’t stop him from trying._

_A silver beetle crawled across his trainers, examining the laces with waving antennae. “Hello, friend,” he said quietly. “Where did you come from? Where is your home? I would like to see it. I bet it is warm and soft, the people you love- I mean bugs you love surrounding you, everything that makes you happy. I wish my home was like that,” he continued, rubbing a bruise on his arm with a thumb, “Maybe if I tried harder it could be. Maybe she wouldn’t be so angry all the time. I’ll do my best. Do you think I can do that, beetle?”_

_It didn’t reply. That was answer enough for him._

~~~

**Bournemouth, 1998**

_Something rapped sharply on his door, Jon’s breath catching in his chest. A horrible image flashed through his mind, hairy legs pushing into the room with clicking mandibles and glistening eyes-_

_“Jon. What are you doing still awake?” His gran stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the feeble light of the hallway._

_He drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders, hoping it concealed the light tucked underneath them. “Reading,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. A book lay next to him, it’s spine cracked and ancient. Reading was the only thing that kept the night terrors at bay, filling his mind with softer thoughts than his imagination would currently supply._

_She sighed. “Time to sleep, boy. You have school in the morning. I won’t hear it,” she held up a hand at his soft protests. “You are going and that’s final. Get to bed.”_

_It clicked shut behind her, Jon diving once more into the pages, reading frantically as the words of Mr. Spider tried to creep into his mind again._

~~~

**Devon, 1998**

_“Mum?” Martin’s socked feet slid against the floor of his mother’s bedroom. “Mum?” he tried again, his voice stronger._

_The shape in the bed stirred slowly, waking with no softness to her voice. “What do you want?”_

_“I- I can’t sleep.”_

_“Well, that’s not my problem, is it? I told you not to eat those sweets before bed.”_

_“It’s not that- I had a nightmare.”_

_“Get over it. It was just a dream. It can’t touch you.”_

_“I know, I know, I just… Can I sleep with you, tonight?”_

_“Of course not. Get back to bed, Martin. And stay there.”_

_Crestfallen but not surprised, he walked back to his room, his mother’s final words drifting to meet his ears._

_“Idiot child.”_

~~~

**Bournemouth, 2000**

_Something smacked gently into his arm, falling to the floor with a thud muffled by the echo of voices in the cafeteria. Jon didn’t look up, scowling down at the book he was trying to read. He wasn’t upset, exactly, but all the concentration in the world couldn’t mask the fact that he was in a place he didn’t want to be, learning things he already knew, dealing with people he shouldn’t have to._

_Another something was lobbed towards him, a napkin containing a few breadcrusts falling into his lap. Sighing, he looked up to see a few people sitting across from him, laughing softly._

_“Was wondering how long it would take you to notice, Sims.” The boy smiled unpleasantly, peanut butter smeared at the corner of his mouth. Jon was suddenly aware of a small pile of similar napkins littering his feet. He nudged them aside with distaste, choosing not to speak._

_“What a weirdo. Hey, Sims, you might want to pick those up.” The girl tossed her braids over her shoulder, standing up. The two boys followed suit, one of them sticking his tongue out at him. “Reckon there’s enough scraps in them to feed you.”_

_“You need it, I can see all your bones sticking out of your skin. It’s creepy.” The first boy shuddered theatrically._

_“I wonder why? Oh, that’s right,” she snickered, “You don’t have any lunch.”_

_They left. Jon kicked aside the napkins, frustrated at the truthfulness of their words._

~~~

**Devon, 2000**

_Head down. Keep your head down. Don’t look up, don’t speak up, fifteen minutes to go until the bell rings-_

_“Mister Blackwood, I asked you a question.”_

_Martin made a choked sound, his eyes quickly scanning the blackboard covered with white chalk notes. Giving up on trying to figure out what the question was, he shook his head helpfully. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear the question.”_

_“Of course you didn’t. Pay attention, Mister Blackwood, and you might get something through that thick skull of yours.”_

_He flushed from anger and embarrassment, shoving the page he had been absently scribbling on deeper into his desk._

_Behind him he heard soft snickers. Taking a deep breath, he ignored them. His teacher was right, of course. He couldn’t risk getting bad marks on his homework again._

~~~

**Present**

Jon jumped as the door to the break room opened, his hand instinctively going to the corkscrew on the table. He relaxed (only slightly) when he realized who it was.

“Ah, Martin,” he said, clearing his throat, “You gave me quite a scare.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you…I didn’t realize anybody was still awake.” He shuffled his feet, unsure.

“Likewise.”

Neither of them moved for a moment.

“Sorry, I’ll just- go…”

“Don’t let me stand in the way of-“

They spoke at the same time, voices overlapping. Martin smiled instinctively, a faint, barely there twist to his lips.

“You go first,” he said, giving him the room and time to speak.

Jon sighed softly. “Don’t mind me,” he said, trying to suppress a yawn, “Don’t let me keep you from- whatever it is you wanted to do. I was going to head back in a minute.” The lie burnt his tongue- where would he go back to?

“Oh. Oh, okay, uh, thanks?” Martin moved into the room, the light revealing-

Jon coughed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like you’re just wearing boxers.” He made pointed eye contact, careful not to let his gaze wander.

He looked down and swore. “I’m sorry, I’ll just get out of your hair, didn’t mean to bother you. Sorry, sorry.” Martin repeated his apologies, trying to reinforce some unknown truth with each _sorry_.

“I don’t mind,” Jon said, surprising the both of them. He flushed slightly. “I mean, uh, don’t inconvenience yourself because of me.”

Martin’s blush became more pronounced. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hurrying over and setting a half-full kettle on to boil. “What are you doing awake still?” he asked, desperate to draw the conversation into less treacherous waters.

“I could ask you the same question.” Jon turned his gaze back to his hands, surprised to find a roll of bandages still clutched in one of them. “To answer yours, I had a run-in with a few of our more _unwelcome_ residents.”

Martin looked at him, confused, before he understood. “Did you get a few worms?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I was just bandaging them. Your trick with the corkscrew was _surprisingly_ effective.” He tried not to sound to taken aback by the fact that Martin was slightly competent.

He squeaked slightly at the compliment (could you call it that?). “Of course! Glad I could help. .”

“It still hurt, though.” He grimaced, flexing his arm.

“I’m sorry. Can I…” Martin sat down next to him, hand outstretched. Jon nodded, and he gently took hold of his forearm, examining the sloppy bandaging efforts. He winced in sympathy, brushing a knuckled along the edges thoughtfully. “I could redress these, if you like,” he said quickly, “They might hold a bit better that way.”

Jon sucked in a sharp breath, startled at the outreach of comfort. Of all things he was expecting- of all things he deserved, this was not it. “I don’t want to cause any trouble,” he mumbled, not making eye contact.

Martin pulled the fresh bandages towards him, laughing a little. “ _Jon_. You were just attacked by worms who burrowed into your flesh. It’s the least I could do.”

Jon swallowed, nodding gratefully, his heart pounding for some reason. Martin’s fingers were achingly soft as they unwrapped his wounds.

The kettle whistled and he jumped, scrambling to take it off the stove.

“You didn’t answer.”

His hand slipped slightly at the sound of Jon’s voice, water splashing onto the handle of his mug. “What?”

“Why are you awake?” He accepted a cup of tea from Martin with a nod of thanks, fidgeting with the teabags still floating in it.

“I, uh- couldn’t sleep.”

Jon’s eyes darkened with a worry he couldn’t place. “Was it worms as well?”

Martin laughed, sounding like it was torn out of his throat. “Well, yes, but also no.”

He choked on his tea, raising a hand trailing bandages to wipe his mouth. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nightmares,” he said simply, setting down his own mug with hands that were trembling. “Here, let me finish that.”

Jon muttered his thanks again, frustrated at his own inability to do anything. “Nightmares about the worms, I’m guessing.”

“Right in one.” Martin tied off the bandage neatly, giving it a quick pat before returning to gazing at his own hands.

“Do you,” he said hesitantly, “want to talk about it?”

“That depends- do you want to hear about it?” He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I- didn’t mean to say that,” he mumbled.

Jon waved his apologies aside. “It’s fine, it’s been a long night for all. And yes, if it makes you feel better, I would be happy to listen.”

Martin fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, trying to process the shift from Annoyed-Boss-Sims to Tired-And-Caring-Jon. “Just the usual, I guess. The worms. _Always those blasted worms_. There were more of them tonight, in my dreams, crawling between the sheets, slithering under my clothes- it was just me, though. You and Sasha and Tim had disappeared, an’ I couldn’t tell if they got you too or if…if you left me.” His voice was shaky but the words left him in a steady stream. “There were _so many worms_.”

Unsure, Jon stretched out a tentative hand, mirroring Martin’s earlier offerings of comfort. He laced their fingers together, glad that Martin was looking down and unable to see his reddening skin. It was just a steadying gesture, one that said _I am here_.

But it could be so, so much more.

He swallowed. “We wouldn’t leave you. Trust me.”

Martin smiled weakly, briefly squeezing his hand. “Thanks.”

_A lifetime of aching for someone to steady him, a person he could reach out to, a guiding figure that Jon did not have left him hungry, starving, for a taste he didn’t know. A stupid desire, worthless longings, all tossed to the side in a box labeled POINTLESS._

_Martin’s hand was an anchor in his own, tying him to the moment, his presence telling him that for now, he was safe._

_Martin hadn’t known comfort, a stranger to trust, always caring never being cared for. His promises meant nothing, or so he had been told. His only purpose in this world was to make it easier for others._

_Jon’s hand fit perfectly in his own, warm fingers and warm words- we won’t leave you._ **I _won’t leave you._**

**Author's Note:**

> the dates are kinda ambiguous bc we don't have any official confirmation of birthdays so in '96 the boys are about seven or eight, '98 nine or ten, '00 closer to twelve? it's not huge but it's definitely there.   
> what did y'all think?


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